Pacifica Vamp

Pacifica always seems like it's off season. It's foggy and damp, dulling the sun's light, that slow poison further weakened. Everything needs a coat of paint and there is always the sound of something dripping in the background. Rockaway reeks of desperation and poor choices. It's the musk that draws people easily forgotten and drew me here.

Drip, drip, drip

#

The sign outside the lounge boasts the best crab sandwich in the world. The lounge is not the best of anything, anywhere. Low tables around a dance floor and bandstand. A view of the parking lot, then the Pacific. The sky is fading to the color of an old bruise. It's Tuesday, no crowd.

She's mid 50s, leathery, cigarettes and a lighter on the bar next to a vodka tonic. I head over.

"Vodka tonic?"

"Gin."

"Huh, bum me a smoke? I'll get your next."

"Sure."

She's from Merced, kids are at mom's. Try to nod when expected, make enough eye contact. Three more drinks, and we're walking up to Sharp Park.

She stops on the sidewalk. "I don't usually do this, don't get the wrong idea."

"Of course, of course. C'mon inside. I have some gin. If you're interested we can have a bit more of a party..." She starts up the walk.

I open the front door. She steps in, I shove her into the garage. There's no yelling, no fight. They seem to expect this, even the men. A Pacifica vibe.

"I was already into you."

"Really? It's not about that though." I roll over the IV and dialysis machine, start the saline. I don't ask about drugs, they always lie. She smells clean. I don't pick up anything to worry about. I leave her to hang through the day.

#

I wrap a bag from the fridge in a heated blanket. There are ten more bags in there. Tomorrow I'll have seventeen. I bite the pouch early, cool and thick. I always do that. I haven't had a live bite in /decades/.

The cracked screen on her phone shows no texts, just the cover of an old Poison album. I walk back to the lounge, set the phone on the retaining wall.

Another lost phone, nobody will miss her.

I refuse to get on board with the others. Just like I won't go out in the day. I could. I could sit in the sun on the beach and lure better stock. That pull is always there. I won't answer it. It's our "nature." It's bullshit. We're all the same and working together is just working for someone else.

I grab the latest Emily Henry and read until dawn.

#

I'm up with the sunset. I don't see any bruises on her wrists, she didn't struggle. I pull the IV and cut her soiled clothes off. She wakes as I hose her off.

"Are you, like, a vampire?"

"I am."

I wipe her inner thigh with an alcohol swab; my hand lingers and I feel her pulse. My hand tightens. It's that same pull. I bury it.

"In Pacifica? Are there more?"

"Sure, they're around. I stick to the run-down places. They don't bother me here."

"It's not that..."

I give in. Pulling her hair, stretching her neck. Biting into her, holding her up as she goes limp.

I haul her down and drag her to the incinerator. It's a windy night and the polluted tide will hide the smell. There's still ten bags, tomorrow there could be seventeen, I'll stick to those for a while.

Drip, drip, drip...

# # #